Happiness is a Warm Gun
Title: Happiness Is A Warm Gun [Chapter 1/?]
Author: framed_words (me)
Pairing: George/John, eventually. Suggested John/Paul
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: The teeniest bit of violence. Hasn't been betaed.
Summary: George Harrison is a 15-year-old outcast who takes a job running errands for a bookie. One night he makes a delivery to mobsters Paul McCartney and John Lennon.
Author Notes: My first Beatle fic. The idea might not be as original as I'd hoped, I'm not sure.
Disclaimer: I don't own the Beatles or their entourage either, this is pure fiction.
“Where the bloody hell is he?” John Lennon growled, rubbing his gloved hands together in an attempt to warm himself.
“He won’t be long,” Paul McCartney replied, his words slurred as his lips, numbed by the cold, fail to produce coherent words.
“He won’t if he knows what’s good for him,” John added darkly. He pulled the collar of his coat upwards to protect his neck from the icy Liverpool air. “Y’know, showing up late on your first day isn’t the best way of impressing your employers.”
Paul felt the accusation in John’s voice - he was blaming Paul for trusting an unpunctual newbie he knew only through school. He clenched his jaw and spoke sharply: “He’ll be here.”
John saw that he was getting on his friend’s nerves and smirked inwardly. Letting out a low whistle, he said, “Yes, but precious minutes of my young life have already been wasted. And standing out here in this weather, it’s doing nothing for my pores - look, Paul. Look.” He stepped towards the younger man so their faces were barely two inches from each other, pulling his skin taut over his cheekbone to better expose his pores. “Look,” he insisted.
“Get away from me,” grumbled Paul, pushing him away before returning his hands to his trouser pockets. Chuckling, John stood next to his companion and rocked on the balls of his feet. They remained like that for several minutes, John watching his own breath leave his nostrils as white fog, Paul chewing his bottom lip worriedly, until the latter said quietly, “Really, though, John. Boss doesn’t need to know about this.”
John stared at him with a raised brow. It was a few seconds before Paul met his gaze and added, “C’mon, John. You know how finicky he gets about being on time. Why don’t you cut the kid a little slack, huh?”
John blinked at him and, for a moment, Paul expected him to argue; instead, he shook his head. “Gee, you should’ve told me you’re queer for him, McCartney. I wouldn’t have been so rude.”
“Shut up.”
John smirked. After a moment’s silence, he spoke in a tone that better suited the discussion of weather, rather than the prospect of losing a considerable amount of money. “So how do you know he’s not embezzling the cash as we speak?”
“He’s just a kid,” Paul said, scoping the streets for any sign of the boy he spoke of - the roads were still damp from the afternoon’s rain, the reflection of the streetlamps shining in the puddles. “Just another punk looking for kicks. Trust me, he’s not gonna even consider touching the cash. From what I can gather, he’s doing it for the popularity boost, not the money.” Paul shook his head. “High school. Can’t imagine why anyone would stay there.”
“Yeah, yeah,” John said dismissively, having heard this particular rant a million times before. “Thank you, O Wise One.” Shoving his hands deep into his pockets, he added under his breath, “Sixteen going on seventy, honestly.” He shook his head lightly and swept his eyes over his surroundings. He was rather fond of Penny Lane, the street he stood in at that very moment - it was a popular, attractive place, and yet it still managed to have character, as did its peculiar inhabitants. He felt guilty for blemishing such a remarkable place with his criminal activities, but a drug bust just a few suburbs away had caused them to divert from their usual place of business. Thankfully, there were no residents on the streets tonight to witness their actions, preferring the warmth of their radiators to the frosty air outside. John envied them - he longed to be sitting by the fireplace with his Aunt Mimi, laughing over tea and chocolate cake.
“Speak of the devil,” Paul muttered.
John’s eyes snapped upwards - half expecting to see Mimi walking down the road - and, upon seeing the silhouetted figure heading for them, relaxed slightly - so the kid wasn’t running off with their money after all.
“Shall you search him or shall I?” Paul asked casually.
“Now, now, Paulie,” John grinned, back to his usual mischievous self. “We don’t want to be rude to our new work colleague.”
Paul cocked an eyebrow. “But what if he-”
“Look at him, Paul.” McCartney did as he was told and saw the boy checking for traffic before crossing the street, pulling his clothes tighter around his thin frame. “He’s fiddling with his coat.”
“So?”
“So,” said John impatiently, “if he had a wire, it’d rustle the microphone. People with wires don’t play with their clothing, mate.”
Paul’s eyebrows furrowed but he only murmured, “Hmmm.”
They waited patiently for the third man to join them - and when he did, John’s calm persona faltered.
The bookie’s runner was not what John had expected. Lennon had encountered wannabe criminals many times before - in fact, he was the one who’d suggested Paul join their ever-growing gang after witnessing him in action. Paul, too, had worked in gambling, sweet talking wealthy women - and, occasionally, men - into placing large sums of money on competitors that were destined to lose. McCartney’s kind, angelic looks - which he could turn smouldering and dangerous at the flick of a switch - made him a valuable asset.
But the boy that was walking towards John at that very moment, grinning so wide that all of his crooked, mismatched teeth were visible, was not appealing in the slightest. Ears disproportionately large stuck out under short brown hair, whose front, back and sides appeared to be growing at different rates. His long eyebrows, which rested above boyish eyes with feminine lashes, were at risk of becoming a monobrow overnight. In fact, his features were so unsymmetrical that they reminded John of leftover bits of play-dough that’d been clumped together. He walked with the grace of a man of play-dough, too - his twitching arms swayed arrhythmically with his shuffled steps, his limbs too long to be moved comfortably. He reeked of virginity and teenage insecurity.
John quickly composed himself, smiling through his teeth at the teenager. A strange anger grew rapidly inside him - it was almost as though he blamed the boy for being so gawky and unattractive.
As the boy neared them, still grinning idiotically, he started to apologise, speaking as though they were old friends, “Sorry lads, I-”
The older man placed a hand on his chest, preventing him from stepping any closer to Paul. “Wait a moment,” John smiled, bending his knees slightly and swinging his back arm forwards, punching the boy harshly in the gut. Paul heard the wind get knocked out of his body - with a moaning sound, the lad doubled over.
McCartney looked from the boy to John, raising his eyebrows and tilting his head in a manner that asked ‘was that really necessary?’ John merely smiled - this time, it was genuine. Paul sighed and looked pitifully upon the boy.
John leaned over and patted the boy on the back - for a moment, Paul thought the older man was comforting him, until Lennon declared, “Nope, no wires. He’s clean.” When Paul only stared at him disapprovingly, John asked innocently, “What?”
“Are you telling me there is no other way you could have possibly checked for wires?”
“You can kiss it better later. What are you complaining about?” John furrowed his brows suspiciously and Paul frowned.
John straightened and spoke arrogantly, “Doubt he has a weapon, either. Why, he’s rather cute, isn’t he? Like a doll. A little doll that’s been dropped one too many times.” John cackled then, bending down to the boy’s level, inquired with a grin, “And does our little dolly have a name?”
When the boy only coughed pathetically, Paul told him: “Harrison.”
“Harrison,” John said thoughtfully. “Harri, Harri, Harrison.” He pursed his lips. “Nope, doesn’t ring a bell. You got some identification, lad? Can’t be doing business with the wrong bloke now, can we?”
Paul gave his peer an incredulous look. “John, it’s the right guy. I recognise him from school.”
John shrugged. “Whatever you say. I guess you can’t really forget a face like that.” To Harrison, he said, “Got the cash?” He regretted punching the boy, for when John saw Harrison’s scrunched up face, he realised his smile was much more attractive.
“Yes, sir,” whispered Harrison in a strained voice, attempting to stand up straight but unable to do so. Slightly hunched and wincing, he reached into the inside of his coat - John immediately grabbed his wrist and Paul’s heart skipped a beat. Lennon squeezed it so tightly that, if Harrison had been holding anything, he would have dropped it involuntarily.
The boy thought his skinny wrist was going to break under the pressure of the older man’s iron grip as John pulled his hand from his coat. When Harrison opened his mouth to explain he wasn’t reaching for a weapon, John spoke over him. “Watch where you’re putting your hands.” He stared at him menacingly and released his wrist. “Tell me where it is and I’ll get it.”
Harrison swallowed hard, lifting his arms in submission, a sweat breaking out on his forehead. For the first time, he realised he wasn’t dealing with two street-smart kids - these guys were actual mobsters; they didn’t care for chitchat or the usual carrying-ons of teenage boys. His voice shaking, the boy told them, “Top left pocket of my jacket.”
John took a step forward and slowly reached into his coat. Harrison’s heartbeat was racing. He wondered if these men had a gun - subtly he dropped his eyes to check, but it was much too dark to be certain.
Lennon ripped the envelope from Harrison’s pocket with such force that it tore out the stitches - the boy stumbled a little then winced at his aching stomach. John took a step back and handed the cash to Paul, who opened the envelope and counted it swiftly. “All there?” he asked, eyeing the boy doubtfully.
“Yep,” came Paul’s reply. “Hang on…there’s more.” He shifted his gaze between John and the boy. “There’s a guinea more than the bloke owes."
John turned on the boy, his words loud and intimidating, “Doesn’t your boss know we don’t accept gifts?"
“I…” Harrison glanced at the envelope Paul held in his hand. “I don’t know, sir.”
“Wait a second, John,” Paul said as the older man’s hand curled into a fist. Looking at Harrison, he bit his lip then asked, “Has your employer paid you yet?”
The boy’s thick eyebrows furrowed. “Um…”
“Did he give you any money for your work?”
“He gave me a few notes after he gave me the envelope; I thought it was more of your money…oh.” Harrison felt embarrassment wash over him as he realised he’d put his own pay in the package.
Paul and John burst out laughing, shaking their heads. “Gees,” chuckled the eldest. “Did your mother drink during pregnancy or something?” Harrison’s cheeks burned with humiliation.
“Here, kid,” Paul said with a humoured grin, taking a pound from the envelope. “This is for the jacket.” He motioned to Harrison’s pocket, which now rested in the gutter, Lennon having discarded it.
Harrison cleared his throat and spoke quietly, whatever confidence he’d had completely destroyed. “Thank you, sir.” His eyes downcast, he took the money and kept his hands occupied by folding it carefully.
As he did this, McCartney and Lennon turned and started walking along the road in the opposite direction. They shouted and guffawed loudly, totally unworried about whose sleep they disturbed. Harrison heard his name mentioned and knew he was the main subject of their amusement. Watching their figures gradually grow smaller, he felt an intense yearning to belong to something so tough, so untouchable. But Harrison lacked the confidence that those men had, the courage, the strength, the good looks - and the list went on. With such thoughts plaguing his mind, he shoved his fists into his pockets and sauntered home, his fingers brushing against the one pound note still in his hand.
Author: framed_words (me)
Pairing: George/John, eventually. Suggested John/Paul
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: The teeniest bit of violence. Hasn't been betaed.
Summary: George Harrison is a 15-year-old outcast who takes a job running errands for a bookie. One night he makes a delivery to mobsters Paul McCartney and John Lennon.
Author Notes: My first Beatle fic. The idea might not be as original as I'd hoped, I'm not sure.
Disclaimer: I don't own the Beatles or their entourage either, this is pure fiction.
“Where the bloody hell is he?” John Lennon growled, rubbing his gloved hands together in an attempt to warm himself.
“He won’t be long,” Paul McCartney replied, his words slurred as his lips, numbed by the cold, fail to produce coherent words.
“He won’t if he knows what’s good for him,” John added darkly. He pulled the collar of his coat upwards to protect his neck from the icy Liverpool air. “Y’know, showing up late on your first day isn’t the best way of impressing your employers.”
Paul felt the accusation in John’s voice - he was blaming Paul for trusting an unpunctual newbie he knew only through school. He clenched his jaw and spoke sharply: “He’ll be here.”
John saw that he was getting on his friend’s nerves and smirked inwardly. Letting out a low whistle, he said, “Yes, but precious minutes of my young life have already been wasted. And standing out here in this weather, it’s doing nothing for my pores - look, Paul. Look.” He stepped towards the younger man so their faces were barely two inches from each other, pulling his skin taut over his cheekbone to better expose his pores. “Look,” he insisted.
“Get away from me,” grumbled Paul, pushing him away before returning his hands to his trouser pockets. Chuckling, John stood next to his companion and rocked on the balls of his feet. They remained like that for several minutes, John watching his own breath leave his nostrils as white fog, Paul chewing his bottom lip worriedly, until the latter said quietly, “Really, though, John. Boss doesn’t need to know about this.”
John stared at him with a raised brow. It was a few seconds before Paul met his gaze and added, “C’mon, John. You know how finicky he gets about being on time. Why don’t you cut the kid a little slack, huh?”
John blinked at him and, for a moment, Paul expected him to argue; instead, he shook his head. “Gee, you should’ve told me you’re queer for him, McCartney. I wouldn’t have been so rude.”
“Shut up.”
John smirked. After a moment’s silence, he spoke in a tone that better suited the discussion of weather, rather than the prospect of losing a considerable amount of money. “So how do you know he’s not embezzling the cash as we speak?”
“He’s just a kid,” Paul said, scoping the streets for any sign of the boy he spoke of - the roads were still damp from the afternoon’s rain, the reflection of the streetlamps shining in the puddles. “Just another punk looking for kicks. Trust me, he’s not gonna even consider touching the cash. From what I can gather, he’s doing it for the popularity boost, not the money.” Paul shook his head. “High school. Can’t imagine why anyone would stay there.”
“Yeah, yeah,” John said dismissively, having heard this particular rant a million times before. “Thank you, O Wise One.” Shoving his hands deep into his pockets, he added under his breath, “Sixteen going on seventy, honestly.” He shook his head lightly and swept his eyes over his surroundings. He was rather fond of Penny Lane, the street he stood in at that very moment - it was a popular, attractive place, and yet it still managed to have character, as did its peculiar inhabitants. He felt guilty for blemishing such a remarkable place with his criminal activities, but a drug bust just a few suburbs away had caused them to divert from their usual place of business. Thankfully, there were no residents on the streets tonight to witness their actions, preferring the warmth of their radiators to the frosty air outside. John envied them - he longed to be sitting by the fireplace with his Aunt Mimi, laughing over tea and chocolate cake.
“Speak of the devil,” Paul muttered.
John’s eyes snapped upwards - half expecting to see Mimi walking down the road - and, upon seeing the silhouetted figure heading for them, relaxed slightly - so the kid wasn’t running off with their money after all.
“Shall you search him or shall I?” Paul asked casually.
“Now, now, Paulie,” John grinned, back to his usual mischievous self. “We don’t want to be rude to our new work colleague.”
Paul cocked an eyebrow. “But what if he-”
“Look at him, Paul.” McCartney did as he was told and saw the boy checking for traffic before crossing the street, pulling his clothes tighter around his thin frame. “He’s fiddling with his coat.”
“So?”
“So,” said John impatiently, “if he had a wire, it’d rustle the microphone. People with wires don’t play with their clothing, mate.”
Paul’s eyebrows furrowed but he only murmured, “Hmmm.”
They waited patiently for the third man to join them - and when he did, John’s calm persona faltered.
The bookie’s runner was not what John had expected. Lennon had encountered wannabe criminals many times before - in fact, he was the one who’d suggested Paul join their ever-growing gang after witnessing him in action. Paul, too, had worked in gambling, sweet talking wealthy women - and, occasionally, men - into placing large sums of money on competitors that were destined to lose. McCartney’s kind, angelic looks - which he could turn smouldering and dangerous at the flick of a switch - made him a valuable asset.
But the boy that was walking towards John at that very moment, grinning so wide that all of his crooked, mismatched teeth were visible, was not appealing in the slightest. Ears disproportionately large stuck out under short brown hair, whose front, back and sides appeared to be growing at different rates. His long eyebrows, which rested above boyish eyes with feminine lashes, were at risk of becoming a monobrow overnight. In fact, his features were so unsymmetrical that they reminded John of leftover bits of play-dough that’d been clumped together. He walked with the grace of a man of play-dough, too - his twitching arms swayed arrhythmically with his shuffled steps, his limbs too long to be moved comfortably. He reeked of virginity and teenage insecurity.
John quickly composed himself, smiling through his teeth at the teenager. A strange anger grew rapidly inside him - it was almost as though he blamed the boy for being so gawky and unattractive.
As the boy neared them, still grinning idiotically, he started to apologise, speaking as though they were old friends, “Sorry lads, I-”
The older man placed a hand on his chest, preventing him from stepping any closer to Paul. “Wait a moment,” John smiled, bending his knees slightly and swinging his back arm forwards, punching the boy harshly in the gut. Paul heard the wind get knocked out of his body - with a moaning sound, the lad doubled over.
McCartney looked from the boy to John, raising his eyebrows and tilting his head in a manner that asked ‘was that really necessary?’ John merely smiled - this time, it was genuine. Paul sighed and looked pitifully upon the boy.
John leaned over and patted the boy on the back - for a moment, Paul thought the older man was comforting him, until Lennon declared, “Nope, no wires. He’s clean.” When Paul only stared at him disapprovingly, John asked innocently, “What?”
“Are you telling me there is no other way you could have possibly checked for wires?”
“You can kiss it better later. What are you complaining about?” John furrowed his brows suspiciously and Paul frowned.
John straightened and spoke arrogantly, “Doubt he has a weapon, either. Why, he’s rather cute, isn’t he? Like a doll. A little doll that’s been dropped one too many times.” John cackled then, bending down to the boy’s level, inquired with a grin, “And does our little dolly have a name?”
When the boy only coughed pathetically, Paul told him: “Harrison.”
“Harrison,” John said thoughtfully. “Harri, Harri, Harrison.” He pursed his lips. “Nope, doesn’t ring a bell. You got some identification, lad? Can’t be doing business with the wrong bloke now, can we?”
Paul gave his peer an incredulous look. “John, it’s the right guy. I recognise him from school.”
John shrugged. “Whatever you say. I guess you can’t really forget a face like that.” To Harrison, he said, “Got the cash?” He regretted punching the boy, for when John saw Harrison’s scrunched up face, he realised his smile was much more attractive.
“Yes, sir,” whispered Harrison in a strained voice, attempting to stand up straight but unable to do so. Slightly hunched and wincing, he reached into the inside of his coat - John immediately grabbed his wrist and Paul’s heart skipped a beat. Lennon squeezed it so tightly that, if Harrison had been holding anything, he would have dropped it involuntarily.
The boy thought his skinny wrist was going to break under the pressure of the older man’s iron grip as John pulled his hand from his coat. When Harrison opened his mouth to explain he wasn’t reaching for a weapon, John spoke over him. “Watch where you’re putting your hands.” He stared at him menacingly and released his wrist. “Tell me where it is and I’ll get it.”
Harrison swallowed hard, lifting his arms in submission, a sweat breaking out on his forehead. For the first time, he realised he wasn’t dealing with two street-smart kids - these guys were actual mobsters; they didn’t care for chitchat or the usual carrying-ons of teenage boys. His voice shaking, the boy told them, “Top left pocket of my jacket.”
John took a step forward and slowly reached into his coat. Harrison’s heartbeat was racing. He wondered if these men had a gun - subtly he dropped his eyes to check, but it was much too dark to be certain.
Lennon ripped the envelope from Harrison’s pocket with such force that it tore out the stitches - the boy stumbled a little then winced at his aching stomach. John took a step back and handed the cash to Paul, who opened the envelope and counted it swiftly. “All there?” he asked, eyeing the boy doubtfully.
“Yep,” came Paul’s reply. “Hang on…there’s more.” He shifted his gaze between John and the boy. “There’s a guinea more than the bloke owes."
John turned on the boy, his words loud and intimidating, “Doesn’t your boss know we don’t accept gifts?"
“I…” Harrison glanced at the envelope Paul held in his hand. “I don’t know, sir.”
“Wait a second, John,” Paul said as the older man’s hand curled into a fist. Looking at Harrison, he bit his lip then asked, “Has your employer paid you yet?”
The boy’s thick eyebrows furrowed. “Um…”
“Did he give you any money for your work?”
“He gave me a few notes after he gave me the envelope; I thought it was more of your money…oh.” Harrison felt embarrassment wash over him as he realised he’d put his own pay in the package.
Paul and John burst out laughing, shaking their heads. “Gees,” chuckled the eldest. “Did your mother drink during pregnancy or something?” Harrison’s cheeks burned with humiliation.
“Here, kid,” Paul said with a humoured grin, taking a pound from the envelope. “This is for the jacket.” He motioned to Harrison’s pocket, which now rested in the gutter, Lennon having discarded it.
Harrison cleared his throat and spoke quietly, whatever confidence he’d had completely destroyed. “Thank you, sir.” His eyes downcast, he took the money and kept his hands occupied by folding it carefully.
As he did this, McCartney and Lennon turned and started walking along the road in the opposite direction. They shouted and guffawed loudly, totally unworried about whose sleep they disturbed. Harrison heard his name mentioned and knew he was the main subject of their amusement. Watching their figures gradually grow smaller, he felt an intense yearning to belong to something so tough, so untouchable. But Harrison lacked the confidence that those men had, the courage, the strength, the good looks - and the list went on. With such thoughts plaguing his mind, he shoved his fists into his pockets and sauntered home, his fingers brushing against the one pound note still in his hand.